Dear Unregistered,Pardon this intrusion into your Eratosphere reading, writing, commentaries, and, ahem, all the other delights the Sphere is able to offer. But to keep it simple indeed, Eratosphere needs your help/sponsorship!

Ordinarily--and actually never before until now--I wouldn't post this personal notice to members outside the threads confines simply because there was more or less some measure of the much-needed assistance from usually a couple of handfuls--out of the hundreds active of the thousands registered--of very helpful members. But it seems things have fairly dried up--or rather, only a dribble remains--in terms of such help, even with the seasonal reminders where we bump the sponsorship threads, with as much restraint as possible, a couple of times or so throughout the year. I could go further, but I'd rather simply point you to the relevant assistance threads to read more or to interact with:

Earth has not anything to show less fair.
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
a sight so horrible and not cry.
The city now doth like a garment wear
the horror of the morning; silent, bare.
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie
under a dull and lachrymose sky,
all dark and dour in the polluted air.
Never did sky have more reason to weep-
at pale sun’s first peep at valley, rock or hill.
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a dread so deep.
The river glideth at his own sad will.
Dear God, the very taxis seemed to weep.
That terrible heart, lying, dying still!

If I should die, think only this of me;
that there’s some corner of Australia
that will be forever Zimbabwe.
In that rich earth, a richer regalia,
a dust, which Bulawayo made of me;
suited , I thought, to success not failure,
but no-one told Ian Douglas Smith you see
that our cause was a dying dahlia!
Its pollen now scattered far and away.
A Rhodesian Rose for which less and less
understanding and sympathy is given:
a polecat of a dog which once had its day.
I hope now, in vain, for a gentleness
in hearts, at peace under a Zimbabwe heaven.

All I could see from where I layWas stuff saved for a rainy day.I turned and looked around the placeAnd saw what I’d kept, just in case.So with my eyes I traced the wallsOf my apartment’s rooms and halls,Straight around, above, belowTo where I’d turned five lines ago;And all I saw from where I layWas stuff saved for a rainy day.

Over these things I could not seeFor bins and boxes bounded me.I tried to touch them with my hands—Those giant balls of rubber bands,Those Wallabees I never wore,Those doodads from the dollar store!

But sure the floor is there, I said:Somewhere beneath the sofa-bed;I’ll get down on my knees, and yes,I’ll look my fill into the mess.And so I looked, and sure enough,Beneath a pyramid of stuff,Between the window and the doorI came across a patch of floor!Big deal! I thought, in no time flatI’ll manumit the welcome mat!I’ll advertise an open house! Then all at once I spied a mouse.

I screamed, and —lo!— the murine frozeThen scurried up a pile of clothes.I tried to bash him with a book,A homemade cosh of Life and Look.My cats joined in the raucous blitz,My dogs joined in but called it quits;I stumbled over cans and cratesOf grub with old expiry dates,Until it seemed I must beholdAgglomerate made manifold.I set a cheddar booby-trapAnd lay down for a midday nap.I dreamed of empty Mason jars,I saw garage sales, church bazaars;Who should appear to plague my snooze,But Mickey shitting in my shoes!

I saw and heard and knew at lastI’d have to clean up good and fast;I’d have to go through every heap,Decide what I would cast or keep.My Universe, cleft to the core,Would smell of Lysol evermore!I fain would toss what some call trash,Delete my history and cache;But never in a million yearsMy Philco with its rabbit ears.I would not, —nay! ‘Twas too unfairTo throw away my teddy bear.

All hoards were of my hoarding, allRedress was mine, and mine the haulOf every ragman; mine the jobOf every slattern, every slobWho, in their spurn of suds and soap,Depend upon a forlorn hope.

I said it mattered not a jot,But each bag held a second thought.I was attached to all my thingsWith miles of multi-colored strings.I filled a burlap gunnysack,Then wept and put each item back.

A sad girl dressed in dark Capris(Those pants that end below the knees)Went shopping on Rodeo Drive,Bought thirty thongs then came alive.

A man with melancholy eyesAmassed a treasure trove of ties,Dependent on his silk cocaine.I knew the feeling, felt his pain.

No ache I did not feel, no twingeI could not share. Each jag, each binge,Each blowout sale, each dumpster wasAn avatar of Santa Claus.All obloquy was mine, and mineThe ordinance to toe the line.

My lucid dream was such a loadIt contravened the building code;The floor gave way and I was thrustInto the cellar’s dark and dust;My dolls, unseated from their shelves,OMG’d among themselves.My tax returns, my water bills,My overrated sleeping pills,A platform shoe, a roller skate,Some weed from nineteen sixty-eight,Came crashing down upon my brow.I was in deep, deep doo-doo now.

I tried to move, but I could not,For every thing I’d ever boughtAnd stashed and never used or wornHad come to haunt or else to mourn.Then all at once I heard the soundOf first responders. I’d been found!And while I waited for releaseAn unexpected sense of peaceSuffused my soul from head to toeAmid the strains of Let It Go.Right then I knew I’d be OK,I’d live to die another day.And though determined to be free,I ached for one last shopping spree.

I longed for Michaels’ bric-a-brac,The tees on Walmart’s close-out rack;The bagatelles, the bibelots,The fripperies and furbelows;The pennies waiting to be found,Action Comics by the pound;Photos, trinkets, objets d’art,Souvenirs from near and far.For soon I’ll be the feng shui queen,My kitchen will be squeaky-clean;Each item in its proper place,A plenitude of breathing space,The clutter gone, I’ll cease to hoard,Sterility its own reward.

How can I bear it, lying here,While overhead they joke and jeer,Calling me batty, boffo, flake,Chucking that piece of wedding cakeI’d saved for forty years (insideThe freezer) with its groom and bride?O, multitude of multisets,Belovèd Johnny Cash cassettesThat I shall never, never seeAgain! O, save just one for me!O God, I cried, forgive my sin;Don’t send me to the loony bin!Then suddenly I overheardA conversation, word for word:My terrifying fall from graceHad been declared a hopeless case.

I listened closely. They were gone.My prayer was answered. Thereupon, García Márquez’ ghost appeared;He took control and commandeeredEach pink flamingo, garden gnome, Each knick-knack in my Home Sweet Home;He made them fly, he made them dance,He put my spirit in a trance.Was this a reverie, a spell,Or was it rapture? Who can tell?

I know not how such things can be;I only know there came to meA redolence of stinky cheeseDisguised by droplets of Febreze;A sound I could not quite divine—A squeal, a scratching and a whine.The mouse! I wasn’t dreaming, then!Awakened in the world of menAnd women, I was tickled pink—It all was there: the kitchen sink,My slippers, none the worse for wear,My seventh set of Tupperware;A paint-by-number aquarelle,Three hundred rolls of Cottonelle.The Stars and Stripes, the Christmas wreath,Two grown-up children’s baby teeth;My mother’s brooch, my father’s hat,Ten tokens for the Laundromat;A yearbook, gold and navy blue,A rose pressed to page forty-two.My vision of the spic-and-span,The grim and greedy garbage man,Had served to vindicate my itch:I was the paragon of kitsch.

Ah! Up then from the floor sprang I,Exclaimed Yeehaw! and slapped my thigh;I let my hair down, lived it up,Swilled bourbon from a coffee cup.I frolicked in my birthday suitAnd didn’t give a fuck or hoot;I hugged the ground, the grass, the trees,Oblivious of Lyme disease.Oh, ultimate felicity!Oh, glorious eccentricity!All confidence at last restored,I jumped for joy and praised the Lord. Each Hallelujah!, Cohen-style,Made recent wretchedness worthwhile;I felt that God had made me seeThe elegance of entropy, The value of the button box,The brass of she who understocks. And as I said my last Amen,And disavowed the cult of Zen,In natural affinityWee beastie smiled and clicked with me.

Diogenes slept in a jar;I may start sleeping in my car;For I have crammed my closet spaceWith foibles of the human race.Life often splits the soul in two,And makes off with one’s honey-dew;It sours the milk of Paradise,It wrecks the plans of men (and mice).North and South and East and WestAre jam-packed with the dispossessed;And she who stacks her beauties highWill tumble with them by and by.

Hi Tony,
Just saw this--hope it's not too late to help. I have a couple of parodies in Walking In on People that might be of use ("Al Gore's Ode on Global Warming," a Wordsworth parody that was an XJK Parody Award finalist, and "The Gen-Y Dude to His Friend with Benefits," a Marlowe parody) and here's an "Aubade" parody that appeared in Bumbershoot:

OH, BOD
From the files of Philip Larkin

I’m clothed all day and get undressed at night
Beneath the ceiling light’s relentless glare.
It advertises every bulge and blight
I’ve spent twelve hours pretending wasn’t there.
Says Bun, “You’re rounder than a Jersey cow”—
Making all talk impossible but how
And where and when I shall begin to diet.
My middle’s lumpy as an unmade bed
And soft as Hovis bread;
My arse is huge, it’s useless to deny it.

The mind reels: wolf down meat at every course,
While treating mashed potatoes as a crime?
Or gorge on carbohydrates like a horse,
But nothing fattier than broth with lime?
And do I want some snitch named Tess or Trevor
To check my weight each Saturday, forever?
The thought of minding every bite I chew,
Refusing pints of Guinness like a queer,
Declining an éclair,
And soon, can send me weeping to the loo.

Or shall I try a special “weight loss aid,”
Next time the telly urges me to buy it?
A bloody “low-cal” shake or lemonade
Created to pretend we never diet;
Some specious grub that adverts keep agreeing
Is marvelously “rich” and “freeing”—
Which means it’s for the rich (one bite per £),
And free of taste or smell, no fun to drink with;
Digest it and I’ll stink with
Reverberating farts like Patsy’s hound.

And so, reduced to wretched tunnel vision,
I think I’ll have a private surgeon kill
My appetite with hideous precision. …
No, that can never happen: his one bill
Could swiftly snuff a whole year’s wages out.
(I can’t try diet pills, without a doubt,
For if I did, it’s obvious I would
Abuse them terribly, forget to shave,
Act twice as daft with Maeve,
And be the wanker of my neighborhood.)

Quickly I dim the light to hide my shape,
And stand before the wardrobe, squinting so
Its mirror flatters me from calf to nape.
“That 60-watt,” I say, “will have to go.”
I munch a buttered slice of coffee ring,
Paw through the wardrobe and begin to sing,
As, on a shelf near Betty’s paisley blouse,
I find my favorite pair of trou, bar none:
Sansabelt—I’ve won!
In these, no one can tell that I’m a house.